


Vitreous

by Tyleet



Category: Pirates of the Carribbean
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyleet/pseuds/Tyleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was easy, Jack knows, too easy to simply deliver her letter and pass on his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vitreous

It was too easy, Jack knows, too easy to simply deliver her letter and pass on his way. He could have, probably, but the familiar demon in his chest made him stay, share a bottle of rum, flash the same smile he always gives, stand just a little too close, stare just a little too long. Inborn masochism, he would have said, or maybe a combination of desire and the desire to play the eternal tempter. It was a game he liked to play--see how close to the fire he could get without burning himself.

He never expected to have his own rhyming reason tossed back at him, his careful invitation glimmering out of the corner of Will's eyes. A wiser man, or a stupid one, would have acknowledged the gambit and backed down, and walked with warier tread from then on. But after all, he is Captain Jack Sparrow, perfectly capable of resisting everything except temptation, and so he bit the apple.

That is how he finds himself now, backed up against the wall beside Will's small cot, groaning into Will's mouth. 

Will's skin is cool to the touch, and when Jack bends to lick a drop of sweat from his neck, it tastes like sea water. Will arches, pulling Jack closer, so he can press kisses all along Will's collarbone to his jaw, the dip just beneath his ear. His hands are clasped loosely around Jack's shoulders, and they trace small circles of fire into Jack's skin.

"Jack," Will murmurs, hands slipping lower down Jack's spine, caressing every ridge of bone so Jack shudders in his arms. He pauses at the edge of Jack's lower back and briefly lets his fingers dip lower before drawing them up again, shockingly cold.

"Get on with it, Turner," Jack groans, pulling Will closer. He wonders if Will thinks he says 'Turner' because he can't remember which one he's with--almost begins to crave that flash of uncertainty, or jealousy, or anger or something that's sure to blossom in his eyes--but no.

Will laughs and slicks them both thoroughly with lantern oil before bending Jack onto the cot and easing in with one, two, three thrusts. "Im--patient, are we, Sparrow?" He laughs again, and then silences when Jack clenches around him.

Jack draws in a breath harshly, all too conscious of the breathlessness above him. Do you need to breathe, if you're not properly alive in the first place?

"Hot," Will moans, briefly shutting ancient eyes, "God, Jack, you're burning." He is still too cool, but Jack isn't going to complain, not when it feels so perfect, so he groans out his agreement, and curls one hand around himself.

They start to move, and Jack can't help but wondering, between moans, how it would feel to have this the other way around: Will feverish under his hands, clawing frantically at his back, urging him on with his hips. Would he be near deathly quiet, as he is now, with only the occasional gasp punctuating his thrusts? Or would he writhe beneath Jack, twist his head back and forth desperately and then scream in pleasure so that Jack had to reach down and stop his mouth...?

He wonders too, how that would be--if he leaned forward and took Will's mouth, forced his tongue between his lips and bit and bruised and licked until the perpetual coolness of his skin melted and burst into heat and fire--yes, fire--fire to consume them and burn them and cleanse them, finally. Jack makes a sound he isn't entirely proud of, and Will thrusts more deeply into him.

Let me, let me, Jack thinks through a haze of desire, let me let me please-- because he doesn't want this stranger-friend that sails worlds beyond Jack's comprehension every night--the one who married his lass but welcomes Jack into his bed, the one who has Calypso looking out of his eyes, no no he wants fire between them, and _yes_ and sweat. He wants the red-faced boy with eyes rightfully younger than Jack's, who would make his choice and stand by it forever and and he wants to be chosen, the only choice, and that is a terrifying thought, because that means all he wants is the blacksmith, but--

"The blacksmith is dead," Will whispers, mouth moving against Jack's ear, hips speeding up below. "There's only me."

Jack opens his mouth to defend, agree, argue, but then he doesn't remember any words at all because Will's lips descend upon his, pressing down in a chaste kiss. He comes, endlessly, and doesn't hear the words Will cries out as he shudders above him.

When he can open his eyes again, Will is sitting up, watching him. The moonlight catches in his hair, giving him an unearthly halo while keeping his face in shadow. He reaches out one hand and touches Jack's throat, lightly. When he speaks, his voice is soft.

"Regrets, Jack?"

A thousand, Jack thinks, eyes tracing the scar on Will's chest, the key around his neck, the letter beside the bed he will take to Elizabeth tomorrow.

"Jack?" Will leans forward, out of the moonlight, and his eyes are simply warm and brown.

"No," Jack says, finally. He reaches out and pulls Will back down to the bed. "None."


End file.
